


Red Symphony

by sundogsailor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon-Typical Violence, Classical Music, F/F, Femslash, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundogsailor/pseuds/sundogsailor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/><i>Then Hanna was pressing the instrument gently into her hands, the touch lingering, Willa’s grip closing and a cool prickle shuddering through her chest. Their eyes met at last.</i><br/><br/><i>“Just for me, then. Only here.” </i><br/><br/><i>She gave the smallest of nods, disbelief and performance anxiety and a nascent tightness in her gut all roiling at once beneath her controlled expression. Hanna wanted her to play, and so she would. </i> </p><p>---</p><p>Willa Graham of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra thought she had abandoned her past in law enforcement a long time ago. But old wounds still ache, and now she's caught the eye of a certain Baltimore psychiatrist. As Quantico scrambles to deal with a spate of new murders in Philadelphia, Hanna Lecter quickly becomes concerned with more than just the FBI...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hanna Lecter sat, several rows back and on the aisle, with her hands folded neatly on her lap as the music washed over her in the hall. Brahms’ Symphony No. 3, with all its peaks and shifts, was a mainstay. Her eyes began to drift to half-lidded, her mind gently detaching itself from her body and the red velvet seat she sat in to parse the notes like a chef analyzing each subtle variation in his meal’s ingredients. The flute section, rising light, but anchored by the bassoons below them. The French horns crescendoing, then cut short with a flick of the conductor’s baton. A diminuendo, followed by the sweet entry of strings alone. The cellos, the violins, both weaving together in a subtle melody.

Hanna’s eyes took the stage back into focus as the first movement ended, the brief interlude momentarily robbing her of that auditory fabric. As the woodwinds softly ushered in the second movement, her attention came to rest in the violin section.

Willa Graham, 5th chair violin in the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, said the type inside the program delicately resting between her first and middle fingers. But Hanna already knew that. The spectacled woman sat three seats back from the conductor, violin rested on her knee as she tightened her bow hair with a practiced flick of the wrist. Her attention was intently divided between the sections to her left and the gently held baton in front of her, quiet anticipation evident before she briskly brought her instrument to her shoulder and entered on cue. 

Hanna rested back into her seat and rearranged her legs. Now Willa melded in with the other nine violinists, their bow strokes in perfect synchronization. There was something about the way she played, though, that Hanna could pick out even without looking at the orchestra. Something barely noticeable unless one truly knew how to listen to the complex texture of compressing waves that made up what humans hear as music. It was subtle, deep, quite unlike even the principal violinist’s flair. It was something interesting.

She let a smile flit ever so discretely over her features and settled in for the rest of the concert.

 

When Hanna Lecter next returned to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, Bach was the composer of the evening. Though less to her tastes than a good Brahms Symphony, it would be suitable entertainment for a late fall night like this. She could feel quiet energy running through her veins, her body knowing what was to come following the performance. She had an unannounced appointment with a particularly ill-mannered tailor, the first of three on her upcoming schedule.

Her eyes swept the stage as the performers filed on, searching the violin section. Willa Graham was not there, the place her barely-tamed brown hair and handsome features usually occupied taken by an older man with a ponytail instead. Hanna frowned and leafed through the program booklet. The asterisk by the new 5th chair’s name sent her to the bottom of the page: visiting relief musician.

The small envelope in her purse would not see its intended recipient tonight.

  


Hanna Lecter patronized the Symphony twice more in the coming weeks. Ms. Graham still made no appearance, and the music suffered for it. She endured the post-performance socializing with less patience than usual, yet again deflecting questions about when she would host her next dinner party. Not yet, she said. I have encountered some difficulties with finding the proper company.  
The group of socialites laughed their tinny laugh, and one particularly thin woman jokes that she’d be happy to give Hanna a list of very proper individuals. Oh, you just must cook for us again!

 

Brahms, finally, had made it onto the program again this evening. This time it was his Violin Concerto in D Minor, and Hanna was pleased by the selection. She took her seat and put her day out of her mind as the lights dimmed. She had spent her lunch hour conversing with Alan, her former mentee at Georgetown, about a particularly vexing serial case at the FBI that had culminated in the killer offing both his wife and daughter before committing suicide in the most bloody manner. Attachment had its downsides, apparently.

Hanna nearly missed the woman come on stage, obscured by several other musicians clad in the same style of inky black formal clothes. Willa Graham was back. Hanna smiled broadly and brushed the corner of the expensively simple envelope still waiting in her handbag. She may have proper company at last.

The soloist’s performance was spectacular, but beneath his climbs and chords always lay the subtle weave of another violin in its block of ten. An appropriately thunderous ovation followed, and Hanna stood with the rest of the audience without reservation. As the concert hall emptied and instruments were carried off stage, she made a point of being among the first to spill out into the lobby.

A crowd quickly gathered around the soloist as he exited the stage doors. Smaller groups moved to greet the other performers as they trickled out, generally acquaintances or family members, but Hanna did not see Willa. She made her way over to where the principal violinist was conversing with an elderly couple and gently interrupted the exchange, inquiring as to her whereabouts. Would she be greeting guests tonight? Did she have prior obligations?

The principal didn't know, but after he realized who she was he directed her to look backstage. Hanna’s deep burgundy ensemble and acute features bled understated money, and all it took was the mention of her name for him to give her what she wanted. She was a platinum donor, after all. She strode past security, passing from the elaborate, high ceilinged lobby to the sparser realm of art in progress, the low-gloss world of preparation and practice familiar to any performer. It was one Hanna knew well.

Willa stood in a side alcove, carefully slipping the shoulder pad off her instrument before bending to situate it in its case. Hanna’s heels clipped on the hardwood floor as she drew near, echoing over the soft conversations of the other musicians packing up.

“Willa Graham?”

She looked up. Her eyes slid over Hanna’s face like water off a duck’s plumage, just quick enough to gauge who she was dealing with. They ended up back on her violin.

“Can I help you...?”

“Hanna Lecter. I thoroughly enjoyed the performance tonight.”

“Thank you. Mr. Acardi played very well.” She pulled the dust cloth over the violin and started loosening her bow, not inviting a continuation of the conversation. Hanna noticed a paleness to her skin beyond that of fatigue as she bent again to place it in the case, and the faint smell of something sweet like rosemary.

“I was happy to note your return to the orchestra,” she pushed. “Its quality of sound has not been the same for the last month.”

Ah, now she had the other woman’s attention. Willa stopped, gently moved to latch her case shut, and then turned back to Hanna, truly taking the stranger in this time. Her neutral demeanor nearly belied the sudden engagement of analytical mental machinery, but not quite.

“I appreciate it,” she acknowledged. “Are you a frequent guest?”

“I am. The Symphony here is both convenient to me and a benefit to Baltimore. I do my best to attend performances and show my support on a sustaining basis.” 

“Oh.” Willa understood her meaning. “Well, we’re very grateful for your contributions. If you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late and I can't stay very long tonight.”

“If you would,” Hanna interrupted her, producing the small envelope that had lived in her purse for the past five weeks, “please take this. I am hosting a small dinner gathering this Saturday and would be pleased if you have time available in your schedule to attend.” She smiled like a cat would, if it could.

Willa accepted the offered paper, turning it over before tucking it into the pocket of her blazer. 

"Thanks for the invitation,” she replied, her tone a fine balance between courtesy and uncertainty. “I’ll consider the offer.”

“I will look forward to your attendance, should you accept. Have a pleasant night.” Hanna snapped her purse shut and departed, disappearing into the bright light of the lobby just as confidently as she had arrived.

Willa was left with one hand on her old brown jacket, staring as the doors swung shut.

 

 

It was past ten by the time Willa pulled into her driveway in Wolf Trap, the tires of her car crunching in the old gravel. The dogs, all seven of them, started yapping and wagging their tails as soon as she turned the housekey, left unloved for the majority of the day. She held the door open as they milled about and dashed into the field. 

The house was cold. Willa set her belongings down on the small kitchen table and cranked up the thermostat, then kicked off her shoes, put kibble out, and retrieved the partially depleted fifth of Jim Beam she kept in the cabinet. She was on autopilot. The dogs began barking so she let them in along with more evening chill, pouring herself two fingers of bourbon as they descended on their bowls. 

She let out a sigh as she swirled the deep golden liquid around in its glass, a reflection of the faintly buzzing kitchen light bending and warping on its surface. She knew she probably shouldn’t be drinking while she was still feeling sick, but it seemed to help with the ache in her muscles more than the antibiotics she was, amazingly, finishing in their entirety. Her doctor had assured her it was just the flu she'd caught, but it had packed one hell of a punch. She absolutely hated going through the social footwork required in a doctor’s visit, but her symptoms had become so severe that she couldn’t rehearse. 

The whiskey numbed other things, too.

Eventually she found herself on the small couch in her living room, outer layers peeled off and a stiff square poking her side through her blazer. She pulled it out, finally revisiting the last events of the night in her mind. The envelope looked fancy, made of some sort of dove-grey designer stationery. "Ms. Willa Graham" was written on the front in elegant looping text, tall and narrow. Willa flipped it over and carefully broke the seal on the flap with her short fingernail.

She fished the invitation out and unbent it from the careful half-fold it had taken to fit in the envelope. Unsurprisingly, it was also made of expensive, heavy-weight paper. Lecter had practically breathed sophistication, the kind of social tact and fashion sense that came only from money and spending too much time at charity galas. 

The labradoodle mutt jumped up on the couch with her, and she unthinkingly carded her fingers through its shag as she read.

 

_Dear Ms. Graham,_

_It is my pleasure to invite you to attend an evening gathering at my home on the evening of this coming Saturday, the 15th of November, to celebrate arts patronage in Baltimore. Dinner will be prepared and served at 7:00pm, followed by cocktails._

_Should you attend, please arrive by 6:30._

_Regards,_  
_Dr. Hanna Lecter_

 

The address written below Ms. Lecter’s name made Willa dip into a frown. If she remembered correctly, the area was one of Baltimore’s most expensive neighborhoods. She flipped open the laptop on the coffee table and Googled it, finding she was right. Then she searched for Lecter, the name vaguely familiar to her in passing.

Dr. Hanna Lecter, psychiatrist, apparently ran a well-respected private practice in downtown Baltimore providing “the highest quality mental health counseling available in Maryland.” The wealth made sense now given her rates, but the information online didn't help with her questions. Why invite her, far from the best violinist in the BSO, to a fancy dinner? The various conductors, soloists, and first chairs usually received the bulk of social attention in the symphony, which was fine with Willa. The delivery of this invitation, though, had been unsettlingly personal. 

She pondered her tumbler. Would not attending offend Lecter enough to impact her donations? God knew her job was already on thin ice, even more so than musicians’ usually were, and Lecter probably knew people in management. On the other hand, the thought of spending a social dinner with the manner of company Lecter probably kept was not one she enjoyed. 

Willa knocked back her whiskey and grudgingly started Googling wines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an unfortunate lack of good, complex femslash in the Hannibal fandom, and you know what they say: write what you want to read. This is a significantly reconfigured AU, but draws heavily on canon. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Archive warnings and tags may change as chapters are added.
> 
> Music links:  
> [Brahms, Symphony No. 3 in F Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PyAkTW5HDU)  
> [Brahms, Violin Concerto Op.77 in D Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-ZmLWyNiSw) (soloist begins at 2:55)


	2. Chapter 2

Willa pulled up to the house at 6:32. The curbs outside its old brick façade were moderately more populated with vehicles than the rest of the street, but not excessively so. A breeze pregnant with frost bit around her ankles as she slid out of the SUV. She shivered, and her clutch on the white wine she’d picked up from the liquor store tightened.

The outfit she wore reflected the closet of someone with little requirement for variety. Her black skirt and sensible flats were the same ones she wore for most concerts, and the navy sweater and tweed blazer beneath her coat both lacked adornment. She’d made an effort to look nice to the extent that she knew how, applying a modicum of eyeliner and rustling up a simple gold jewelry set from the bottom of her drawers. She fished her glasses from her pocket and slipped them on as she walked up to the door, her unruly hair already falling out of its half-ponytail and resting around the frames.

Lecter answered her ring.

“Ah, Ms. Graham. Do come in,” she smiled, holding the heavy door open for Willa to pass into the foyer. This time her impeccably tailored dress suit was deep blue-gray over a textured salmon blouse. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled so neatly into its bun that it looked almost slicked back, revealing all the fascinating angles in her face.

 “I see you’ve brought wine.”

 “Yes,” responded Willa, caught off kilter. She offered it to Lecter. “I hope it’s adequate.”

 “A bottle for an envelope is more than enough,” she countered. “As is your presence. You may leave your jacket here, I assure you it’s warmer in the house.”

 Willa hung her coat among several others and followed Lecter further inside, entering into a large, high-ceilinged room permeated with the scent of fresh food. Small groups of professionally dressed people, perhaps nine or ten individuals, conversed in its parlor portion while various white-clad cook staff buzzed about the long table at the other side of the room near the kitchen. Various dishes waited on the island through its door. The house’s prolific décor was warm, dark, and texturally rich, all supple leather and thick rugs beneath tastefully chosen and framed chiaroscuro paintings. A staircase led upwards into the unknown on the far side of the parlor, implying the larger size of the house and leading to who knew where.

 One of the guests broke off and approached Lecter and Willa as soon as he saw their host return from the foyer. He was fair skinned and quite petite, shorter than Willa by at least an inch or two. Somehow he was managing to pull off a red patterned dress shirt without any trouble.

 “Hanna, is this our new guest?” he inquired with the ease of an old friend, giving Willa a warm smile.

 “Alan, please meet Ms. Willa Graham of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Ms. Graham, this is Dr. Alan Bloom, a colleague and former student of mine in psychology at Georgetown.”

 “I’ve heard that Ms. Lecter is quite well known in psychiatry circles,” Willa said, accepting Bloom's offer of a handshake. She hoped it didn’t come off as too pandering, though it was honestly all she had to work with at this point. It was easier to talk to Bloom than to Lecter, she found, because her eyes naturally hit at the level of his forehead rather than his face.

 “And in the arts community as well,” Bloom replied.

 Apparently Willa truly was out of touch with patronage in her profession, though money matters did not fall to the musicians to manage. To her credit, though, at least she had noted some level of familiarity in Lecter’s name when she’d first introduced herself in the wings.

“What do you play in the Symphony?”

 “Violin.”

 “She does so in the most beautiful manner,” interjected Lecter. “Had she been available, I would have invited her to attend dinner earlier.”

 Willa felt the uncomfortable creep of a blush hiding in her cheeks. She didn’t take flattery well, and didn’t manage to remember that she should respond to compliments in polite company until it was too late.

 “Well, I’m glad you could come tonight,” Bloom said. “I hope you enjoy the evening. Hanna is an excellent chef.”

 “You cooked for all of this?” Willa asked Lecter, surprised. She had thought the kitchen staff were from a catering company.

 “I cook for all my dinner parties. I do require assistance, of course. There is a limit to the quantity of food I can prepare on my own.” Lecter smiled. “Allow me to introduce you to the other guests.”

 Willa followed her through the various conversations, gradually getting a sense of what she was dealing with in her host. Everything about Lecter was measured and intentional, from the way she timed her interjections to precisely the angle at which she held her body. She estimated her age to be in the late forties, fifty at the most, but she bore no signs of being married. This only confirmed the impression of sophisticated, independently held wealth she gave, supplemented by a high level of education, tastefulness, and powerful sense of will. Though she was uncompromisingly polite, her presence quickly dominated social situations without the participants even realizing it. Of whether this was a naturally charismatic personality trait, another manifestation of her tabulated presentation, or both, Willa couldn’t be sure.

 She stopped herself, her mind running dangerously close to engaging in a familiar mode she did not want to sustain. Though she was still vaguely unsettled by the personalized invitation she’d received, it was starting to make some level of sense based on Lecter’s assertiveness and attention to the artistic. If she’d liked her playing enough, of course she would have made contact with her. Perhaps it was better to let the issue of her host lie for now and focus on other things.

 The whirlwind of introductions was taxing, and Willa forgot the majority of the other guests’ names by the time Lecter had run her through all of them. Several people, however, did stand out. Alan Bloom remained the person with the most friendly and genuine demeanor, continuing to easily socialize after splitting off to another group. Mrs. Komeda, a skinny Boston novelist with short dark hair and her husband in tow, had immediately asked whether she was named after Willa Cather; Willa wasn’t. Her motivations were foreign to Willa, operating in a world of prestige that probably would have boiled down to much simpler things if she’d bothered to look. Finally there was Benjamin Raspail, another musician from the Symphony, a flutist, with whom Willa had never spoken at any length. They acknowledged each other courteously, but he was much too dry for her tastes. Though Willa often preferred to bypass idle conversation, she’d much rather chat with an interesting personality than a flat one.

 The half hour for introductions was barely long enough to make the rounds, and soon it was time to eat. Willa was glad to sit down, her muscles suffering from persistent aches. She found herself seated next to Dr. Bloom and kitty corner to Lecter’s chair, who remained standing. As the servers gradually finished their bustling and returned to the kitchen, she chimed her wine glass and captured the table’s attention.

 “It is a pleasure to have your company once more tonight, and to dine for the first time with several of you,” Lecter announced. “I hope you enjoy the meal; but before we begin, I must warn you that nothing here is vegetarian.” The diners applauded, and her lips curled into a smile.

 

By 7:45 the dinner conversation had begun to lull, and empty plates gradually vanished at the quick hands of the kitchen staff. The meal had been excellent, though radically different than Willa’s usual fare. She probably couldn’t have named half the ingredients, though a couple had been revealed as other diners asked Lecter what they were eating. She had mostly listened, briefly joining several conversations about the symphony and their pieces when she’d been drawn into them through a question or comment.

 Finally her plate was whisked away, but she remained at the table with Bloom. Approximately half the guests had moved to the lounge area, tall glasses of champagne in their hands around a roaring fire.

 “Have you been a musician your whole life, Ms. Graham?” Bloom asked, gently picking the last delicate dessert with his fork.

 “Most of it,” Willa shrugged. The copious amounts of wine were slowly loosening her tongue. “Not all of it.”

 “What other work have you done?”

 “Law enforcement. I was in homicide.”

 Bloom looked up in surprise. People usually had similar reactions, given both the nature of her former profession and the sheer amount of dedication through life it took to land a spot in the Symphony.

 “I grew up playing,” she continued before Bloom could ask what most people’s second question was. “And I continued while I was in the force, though not as frequently.”

 “Amazing,” said Bloom. “My work is in criminal psychology.” His expression darkened. “Have you heard about the orchestra murders in Philadelphia?”

 “Everyone has. Most of the people I play with are nervous, but they think they’re isolated.”

 “Do _you_ think they’re isolated?”

 Willa swallowed; at this point she honestly wasn’t sure. All she had was news reports to go on, which really weren’t much, and she tried to keep herself from _seeing_ even when she did read them. There was nothing she could do about these killings, or any killings, since she’d quit the force. Sometimes she had slipped up and looked when she flipped on the TV, like had happened with the Minnesota Shrike coverage or the Ripper, and paid for it with long nights of bad dreams.

 “Alan, Ms. Graham, why don’t you come join us by the fire?” came Lecter’s smooth voice, the woman strolling up behind them and saving Willa from the question. She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

 “Yes, why don’t we?” Bloom assented, standing from his chair. Willa followed suit, and the three of them moved towards the warmth. Somehow a glass of champagne found its way into her hand, cold and bubbly.

 “Willa was just telling me about her history in law enforcement.” Bloom hadn’t dropped the topic.

 “Intriguing,” purred Lecter. “I assume you’re no longer working in the field?”

 “No. Homicide proved… unhealthy for me.”

 “May I ask why you left?”

 “Stab wound. The following indefinite leave of absence turned very definite.” Willa laughed bitterly. Why was she even sharing this with these people? She’d barely met them. Was it the impenetrably smooth wash of Lecter’s voice, or the wine?

 “How unfortunate,” Lecter sympathized. “Alan and I have seen our fair share of death and injury as well. It often comes with our occupations.”

 “Do you practice criminal psychology too?”

 “Hanna and I have been assisting with serial investigations,” said Bloom. “I teach at the FBI academy, and she works on contract with us.”

 “So you were working on the Shrike murders,” Willa grimaced. “It’s horrible, killing living effigies of what you love in order to honor it. Using every piece because you can’t bear to see them go.”

 Suddenly, a silence. Lecter and Bloom exchanged a loaded glance. _Shit_ , thought Willa, just realizing what she’d said. Had it been too much?

 “That information hasn’t been released to the public yet,” Lecter carefully pointed out. “What makes you think Hobbs acted out of love?

 “It took me until the eighth victim, but it was clear from all the reports and photos,” she fumbled, trying to explain something she really couldn’t if pressed. “He didn’t want those girls to suffer. He killed them quickly, and to his thinking, with mercy. Why else would he have put the Nichols girl back in her bed? It was clearly an apology, though I’m not sure for what. He felt he’d been… disrespectful.”

 Bloom stared.

 “Why didn’t you tell this to the FBI? He killed four more victims before the situation was resolved, not counting his family. Drawing that much from news releases alone is exceptional.”

 “What reason would you have to listen? Besides, I’m a violinist. I retired from profiling a long time ago.” Willa raised her champagne to her lips, her glasses suddenly insufficient to hide behind on their own.

 “Your body may have, but it certainly seems as though your mind has not,” countered Lecter. “I can sense your deep perception of emotion and intent even when you play. Imagine the good that could be done if you allowed yourself to return to interpreting people’s actions rather than the notes on a page.”

 Willa frowned. Looking was never easy, and more often than not it left her shaken with the ghost of a killer burned to the insides of her skull. Most had faded in the five years since she’d seen a real body, but outlines remained. She had been glad to watch the menagerie eroding away, their thoughts, their fears, and their justifications that had felt so _right_ going along with them, never to return. _But you were saving lives, thinking like them_ , one voice whispered. _What are you saving now? The sensibilities of Baltimore socialites?_

 “The FBI has taken over the Philadelphia Orchestra killings,” Lecter continued, breaking her introspection. “Would you consider consulting, just on this case? Given its nature, your background would be an asset.”

 “I retired, Ms. Lecter.”

 “That doesn’t mean you can’t return to the field.”

 “I can’t just leave the Symphony.”

 “It would be part-time and temporary,” she assured. “And a stipend would of course be provided for your efforts.”

 “What makes you so sure I’m the right person for this?” Willa sighed, realizing that the two doctors had already won. The Philadelphia murders were too close to her, both professionally and ethically, to turn her back on when she was actively being solicited to help catch their culprit.

 Lecter smiled, recognizing the shift in Willa’s body language.

 “It is not a matter of being the right person, Ms. Graham. It’s just a matter of being able to help.”

 “Alright. I’ll accept the offer.”

 “Fantastic,” Bloom beamed. “I’ll speak to the head of the Behavioral Science Unit tomorrow about getting you on board for consulting and then get in touch with you.” He dug a business card out of his coat pocket and passed it to Willa. “Here’s my information. Would you mind giving me a number I could reach you at?” Willa accepted the card and gave Bloom her cell phone number, which he entered into his phone.

 Lecter laid her hand gently on Bloom’s arm.

 “Perhaps we should save any further discussion of the topic for another time. It is rather dark fare for a celebration of arts patronage such as this,” she recommended. “Ms. Graham, I am glad that we have found common ground tonight beyond a mutual appreciation of music.”

 Willa smiled her courtesy smile.

 “It’s amazing what one can learn about her host. Please, if you’ll excuse me, where’s your bathroom?”

 Lecter indicated the direction, and Willa left the conversation.

               

Willa exited the house at 8:27. She excused herself under the pretense that her dogs would be getting hungry, even though she had fed them before driving to Baltimore. She hugged her coat around herself as she walked across the dark street to her SUV, turning the key so she could punch on the heat as soon as she got inside.

 “Fuck,” she swore, realizing that she’d come out of the night with more obligations than she’d had going in. The buzz of the wine still lingered, as did the sensory impression of the dark, lush décor of Hanna Lecter’s house.

 She loved playing in the Symphony. Music was the one place where she didn’t feel threatened by accepting her emotional readings, delving into and exploring centuries old lyrical texts and extrapolating their intricacies. It was vastly different than profiling, in which she painstakingly reconstructed the designs of killers over the scaffolding of her own mind, but she could still sense the presence of composers in their musical blueprints.

 It did not frighten her.

 Willa started the engine with a bitter twist flick of her wrist, pulling out into the road and starting the long drive back to Wolf Trap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to what you may have thought, this isn't dead! I finished my thesis and actually have time to write again, so expect Chapter 4 up soon as well. 
> 
> Willa meets the team.

The building that housed the Behavioral Science Unit loomed up harshly against Quantico’s gray Thursday afternoon sky, the 1960s brutalist architecture doing the day no favors. Tiny, pitiful snowflakes of the season’s first snow drifted steadily to earth only to melt and dampen the asphalt beneath Willa’s feet. She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat before sliding out and locking the car, gathering her composure to walk inside. She probably could’ve just left it open in the parking lot, though, given the sheer amount of security she’d had to pass to get onto the Bureau’s campus: two gates, an ID check, and a canine sniff-down of the vehicle.

It had taken Alan until yesterday to call her about coming in. Willa had filled the intervening four days by attempting to go about her normal business, spending long hours at practice and rehearsal in Baltimore and filling her evenings her small pack of mutts and the occasional finger of whiskey. She’d finished the round of antibiotics on Monday and felt substantially better, but a stubborn, almost-ignorable ache remained deep in her knees and hips. It wasn’t a glamorous life, but Willa was generally content in the predictable rhythm of solitude she’d created outside the collaboration required by her job.

 Contemplation on the Philadelphia orchestra murders, however, had crept into that solitude. She couldn’t keep herself from staying up late reading every article she could find on the crimes, refusing to delve too deeply while still starting to build an initial profile of the killer. It was no relief when Bloom’s name flashed distractingly across the screen of her buzzing phone to set up their first official meeting. Willa had committed to helping catch a killer, though, no matter her doubts, so she’d damn well see it through. She was going back, she realized, the actual reality of it hitting home for the first time with a punch.

Willa’s hand gripped reflexively at her right shoulder as that thought ran through her head again on the BSU steps. She entered the small lobby and checked in at the front desk, the blast of the building’s heaters quickly forcing her to shrug off her jacket and tuck it under her arm. She took a seat to wait, choosing one of the several tastefully modern chairs across from the wall of windows facing the parking lot. A pack of sweatsuit-clad FBI trainees ran across a field far in the distance.

“Ms. Graham?”

Willa looked up to see Alan Bloom emerge from the elevator in a suit. She stood and accepted the handshake he offered in greeting.

“Dr. Bloom.”

“Please, just call me Alan,” he smiled. “Welcome to the BSU.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll go see Jackie Crawford first, she’s in charge of the investigation,” he said, preceding her into the elevator and hitting the button for the fifth floor. “Then we’ll get you up to speed and introduced to the rest of the team.”

Alan paused and then turned to her, the acceleration of the elevator momentarily weighing them both down into the floor.

 “We really appreciate you lending your time to consult on this,” he thanked her. “It isn’t every day that someone with investigative experience also happens to have direct knowledge of the context of a case.”

Willa gave him the courtesy smile. “As someone with eighty colleagues who fit the victim profile, I really couldn’t refuse.”

The elevator dinged.

 

Agent Crawford’s office lay behind a wall of frosted glass, the door to which Alan politely opened and gestured for her to enter. The two people inside paused their conversation, the woman on the left standing and coming out from behind her sparse desk. She was about as tall as Willa, but at least thirty pounds heavier and built for power. She wore a black skirt suit and her natural hair was twisted back into a dark bun. The other person, who remained seated, was Lecter.

“You must be Ms. Graham,” she said, giving Willa a firm handshake. “Agent Jackie Crawford, head of the BSU. I’ve heard you’re already acquainted with Dr. Lecter.”

“A pleasure to see you again,” the doctor smiled, precisely arranged in the wool-upholstered seat. Today her hair lay coiffed just past her shoulders, and her body language indicated nothing but deferential confidence. Her blouse was a daringly dark plaid.

“Thank you.” Something deep in Willa's chest flipped over. Nervousness?

“Please, sit.” Crawford gestured to the other two chairs and returned to her desk, shuffling folders. Willa glanced behind her at Alan, realized there was no way she could politely wait and take the free peripheral seat, and reluctantly claimed the one in the center. Crawford found the folder she’d been looking for and passed it across to Willa. “Let’s get right to business. This is all the essentials of the case so far.”

“I’ve read everything I’ve been able to find in online already,” she said, flipping through the documents: victim profiles, evidence summaries, schematics, crime scene photos. “Three victims, two over the last two months and one exactly a week ago. All strangled in their homes with their intestines removed immediately post-mortem, and all Philadelphia Orchestra members. Minimal signs of struggle, but they all fought back at the very end.” She picked up one of the photos to examine it more closely, the dark pool of blood beneath a man’s eviscerated body reflecting camera flash. The killer certainly didn’t seem to care about tidiness. “What doesn’t the media know?”

“We’ve linked these killings to a cold-case from three years ago at a park in Norristown. The victim had the same wound patterns, but nobody realized her organs were already gone by the time the coyotes got to her. She played cello in a community orchestra based out of Temple University.”

“An early kill?” Willa frowned, shuffling through the folder until she found the fourth—or rather first—victim. “The Philadelphia Orchestra is a big step up from that in prominence. Have there been any other suspicious deaths of musicians in the area?”

“Not that we’re aware of.”

“We’ve spoken extensively with many of the Philadelphia Orchestra members since they shut down for the investigation,” Alan added. “None of them knew the early victim, or could think of any significant relationship between the Philadelphia victims beyond their place of work. The first one last month was a cellist, but the second played harp and only performed in certain concerts. The most recent victim was a violist. We think we have sufficient evidence to rule out any sort of intra-orchestra feud as motive.” Willa’s mouth twitched in a brief grimace. She knew how a badly those could end, though they were rare. “There must be some pre-existing connection between them and our killer, though, because none of the scenes had signs of forced entry. It can’t be entirely random.”

“What about forensic connections?”

“Nothing conclusive yet,” replied Crawford. “Our lab is still finishing work on the most recent body. They all seem to be young for professional musicians, though. Generally fit.”

“Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to introduce Ms. Graham to the rest of the investigative team,” Lecter suggested smoothly. "As they say, there's no time but the present."

“Yes,” agreed Crawford. “Let’s take a trip to the morgue. You can finish looking through the files on the way.”

 

The smell of formaldehyde and industrial cleaners got Willa every time, a scent trigger that she’d probably never be able to rid herself of. Her nose wrinkled at the borderline unpleasant odor as they entered the morgue, its butter-yellow tiled walls and gleaming metal fixtures evoking old memories of overworked city medical examiners and an endless cycle of transient corpses. The BSU facility was obviously state of the art, large, well lit and with an entire wall of filing cabinet-like body storage.

A team of three, two women and a man all dressed in white lab coats, obscured her view of one of the exam tables. The shorter of the women was pale and looked to be in her fifties, while her taller counterpart was significantly younger. The man was of Asian descent and looked about Willa’s age, and turned excitedly to greet them as they entered.

“Our new consultant, Jackie?” He asked, a lilt of playfulness in his voice that seemed entirely too mischievous for their surroundings.

“Ms. Graham, this is Ben Katz, our resident fiber analyst. “

“Nice to meet you, Willa—can I call you Willa?” he beamed. “I’d shake your hand, but…” Ben wiggled his fingers. The blue latex gloves he wore were partially covered in a sticky, vaguely organic substance.

“It’s fine,” she acknowledged, mostly concerned about the second part of his greeting.

“I hear the case closure rate for the Baltimore PD shot through the roof while you were there,” he continued. “That’s crazy. Why did you leave?”

“Ben, stop hogging the new recruit,” called the taller woman. Crawford helpfully introduced her as Brianna Zeller, and the third scientist as Jamie Price.

“Jackie, we just got the DNA analysis results back,” Zeller announced, and Jackie and Alan moved to join her by the exam table. “No hits in the database, but the karyotype confirmed that we’re probably looking for a man.”

Willa swallowed, hesitating. She hadn’t seen a real body in what, five years? Or nearly six, now. When she walked over to that table, that would be it. Now was her last chance to back out, to say no and leave, to keep the promise she’d made to herself in that hospital bed at Johns Hopkins and stay out of law enforcement. And part of her wanted to, it truly did. But the other part, the part that had given Alan her number and brought her walking through the door of the BSU that morning, knew she was already far beyond that point.

She stepped up to join the others at the exam table, but not before Lecter caught her hesitation.

Price gave her the rundown as she viewed the body for the first time. It was nothing if not very, very dead. The strangulation marks showed clearly on the woman’s neck, the skin broken in several areas. It must have been narrow and strong, whatever had been used. Blood crusted up beneath her fingernails, evidence of a struggle, but the real focus was on her abdominal cavity.

“Kaede Shibata,” Price narrated. “Forty two years old, killed at her home in Swarthmore last Thursday. Her husband discovered her body on Saturday after returning from a business trip.” She gently separated the skin and musculature of her belly to let more light inside, highlighting the ragged lack of intestines and the dried blood that had pooled at the bottom of the vacant space. “Her small intestine was removed post-mortem with a very sharp knife based on the cut patterns. He did it quickly, too. No fingerprints, not even a partial, were on her or at the crime scene.”

“Fiber analysis came up with nothing, either. Whoever’s doing this knows enough not to give themselves away,” added Ben.

“And her neck?” Willa asked.

“It’s a classic garrote wound, consistent with the other two victims,” Ben answered. “The killer’s been using either wire or some sort of high tensile strength plastic like fishing line. He approached her from behind and by the time she realized something was wrong it was too late. The material under her nails and the finger marks at the garrote line are the only evidence of struggle. He was probably someone she was familiar with, but we don’t know how.”

The crime scene grew clearer in Willa’s mind as the forensics team contextualized Shibata’s murder, going over body placement and clarifying other details about the night of her death from the photos and report. Crawford started riding Zeller about the delay in the DNA results, turning the conversation away from the grisly details. Willa drifted, concentrating on feeling out the amalgamation of evidence, circumstance, and holes that made up the situation posed to her.

“-Graham?”

“What?” She turned to Crawford, called abruptly back to attention. She’d missed the question, and the agent’s brow had a slight tick downward.

“I asked if you have any insights for us.”

She forced her thoughts into order.

“They all played string instruments. Piano wire or strings have commonly been used for garrotes. The victims could have called for the method in some way. A quiet kill means more time for organ removal, too.”

Crawford nodded. They’d already drawn that conclusion, Willa realized. Was this a test? She steeled herself. She couldn’t focus in the morgue, what with the formaldehyde percolating up her nose, the light glaring off the steely fixtures and six pairs of very interested eyes on her. Stepping back into this world was not proving to be easy.

“He’s claiming them, somehow, by taking the intestines, but he doesn’t make a show of it. There’s obviously a level of familiarity there. I don’t want to say whether it’s antagonistic yet.”

“Serial murder is generally antagonistic,” Crawford lanced back.

“Antagonism is often bloodier. And if you just want someone dead, you don’t spend the time and effort to cut them open.”

“Trophies,” Crawford conceded.

“I need to see the evidence as a whole. Has the crime scene been cleaned?”

“You have it all,” she gestured to the folder Willa clutched, “right there.”

“Not like that,” Willa pushed. Crawford stared her down, considering the request implicit in the conversation. There was calculated curiosity in the agent’s stern face, however well she hid it. She wanted to see what Willa was made of, this woman who’d walked into the BSU on nothing more than the recommendation of a subordinate and a terminated police record.

“The house should be mostly intact. The body’s here, but we haven’t passed the rest off to the state PD for cleanup yet.”

Willa nodded, and Crawford’s attention slid off her to the rest of the team.

“Get a move on, everyone,” she rumbled. “Looks like we’re going for a long drive.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI for some canon-typical gore. Enjoy!
> 
> Music links:  
> [Corelli, Concerto Grosso in G Minor, Op.6 No. 8](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFQ2oTYp5Z8)

Willa spent the drive in Crawford’s passenger seat, staying largely silent as she re-read the case files for a second time. Alan couldn’t accompany them, bowing out apologetically on the grounds of papers to grade by morning. Lecter and Ben Katz rode in the other black government-issue SUV, leaving Willa with some space to breathe—emphasis on the some. Crawford didn’t let the strained environment stay silent for long, though, and she quickly realized why they were riding alone together.

“You’re on this case because of the word of two colleagues I regard very highly,” the agent began, eyes attentively on the road. “Apparently it suits your skill set. You’ve been with the BSO for a year now?”

“Ten months,” she corrected.

“You know we ran a background check on you. I read your personnel file from the Baltimore PD.”

Willa groaned silently.

“You were the best profiler they had. Why did you leave the force? Becoming a musician was an odd choice.”

“I was stabbed, Agent Crawford.”

“That isn’t something that stops someone with a ninety six percent case closure rate.”

“It’s not against the rules to have had enough of something. And there were plenty more people who did the same thing I did.”

“That’s not really true, is it? You have… a specific way of thinking.”

“Has there been a lot of discussion about the _specific way I think?_ ” she asked sharply, fresh bite in her tone. She hated this conversational territory. She’d never managed to escape it back in the department, always the superfreak that people whispered about from the other side of the caution tape. It was profoundly uncomfortable to hear it bubbling back into her life.

“You make jumps you don’t explain,” Crawford pressed, her tone softening just enough to defuse.

“The evidence explains.”

“Then help me find some evidence.”

“Right,” she gritted out, reminding herself that she was talking to the head of a major FBI division and forcing herself to let it go best she could. She’d known Crawford for less than a day, but dealing with the agent was already exhausting.

 

By the time the BSU team arrived on the Shibatas’ doorstep, the sun had dropped low in the sky and threatened the inevitable early twilight of winter. The front of the small house was obscured by two large bushes, their skeleton limbs clattering gently in the chill breeze that swept down the street. Its two-story construction and brown-on-cream shutters meshed well with the rest of the old residential neighborhood, save for the conspicuous yellow cordon around the yard. Lecter and Ben joined them on the path, and Crawford flashed her badge to the two local police officers on guard before leading the way inside. It was a fairly simple layout, with an upward-leading staircase immediately to the left of the entrance and several first-floor rooms opening off the foyer. A side table two steps in had been overturned, spilling a folder full of music across the hardwood floor. They shed their coats.

Willa could just see through to the kitchen, dust motes hanging heavy and golden in the sun’s low rays as they poured past the room’s doorframe and into the hall. The house was putrid with the scents of aged wood, rotting fruit, and death.

“The bathroom’s there,” gestured Crawford, face grim. Willa followed her direction, making her way down to the last door before the kitchen while snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves from the SUV’s trunk. She already knew what would be behind it as she turned the glass knob, but her senses buzzed as her shoes clacked in on the tile. It was all about context.

The majority of the mint-hued bathroom appeared entirely normal, belying the splotch of lost vitality at its edge. Carmine-brown blood crusted the bathtub, most long gone down the drain but more than enough remaining to paint the scene. The impression of a woman’s slumped body had been retained, stark white porcelain indicating where her weight had been heaviest and the blood not able to penetrate. 

Willa turned back to the door where her three co-workers—that’s what they were now, she supposed—had gathered. 

“I need space. I can’t work with you watching me,” she requested.

“What do you-” started Ben, puzzled.

“Ben,” interrupted Crawford, shutting him down immediately. “We’re clearing the scene. You too, Hanna.” 

Ben left the doorframe after a curious glance back, with Crawford close behind. Lecter lingered for a long moment, but soon departed as well. Willa smirked bitterly, unsurprised. Crawford had clearly done more than read her officer file: at the very least, she’d also spoken with the Baltimore PD’s chief about how she’d spent her time in the force. Had Lecter read her file, too? Or was the hovering interest she’d felt from the psychiatrist all day just an extension of the reason she’d found that dinner invitation in her hand last week?

No matter. The tub gaped before her, begging morbid attention. Willa closed the rest of the short distance to it and knelt, the thick yarn of the bathmat crushing beneath her knees, her hands clammy as she planted them on her wool-skirted thighs.

And then she took a deep, calming breath, exhaled, and closed her eyes.

_Fwum. Fwum._

Willa had steeled herself, but the thrum of her mental pendulum reverberated cacophonously after such a long period of unuse. The difference between looking intentionally and catching unplanned glimpses from the news channel was staggering. She forced herself to relax, to sink into the flow of it and direct her attention to more important things.

_Fwum. Fwum._

She opened her eyes. 

Shibata slumped in the tub, long since eviscerated. The scene jumped earlier, each moment’s sensation dull and blurred. Now the blood glistened, only minutes abandoned, and Willa eased to her feet. Her first step backwards saw Shibata’s abdomen sealed. At the fifth she was in the hall, and by the twelfth she stood against the front door. 

_Fwum. Fwum._

And then it halted, leaving her head clearer and sharper than she’d felt it in months. A crisp patch of midmorning sun grazed her foot in the sudden stillness, thrown through the tinted glass of the front door. The house smelled fresh. And she was the ghost of someone else.

“She lets me in willingly, but we are not close,” Willa spoke, narrating her mind-space with the words of another translated off manila folders and the expanse of the foyer. Shibata turned away to lead inward, the woman’s straight black hair brushing past her shoulders with the smooth inevitability of sea grass rolling beneath a wave. 

“I do not waste time. I kill her quickly and cleanly.” Two steps forward and Willa had a steel string in her gloved hands, pre-looped and ready to fall around her victim’s neck. Shibata choked in terrified surprise, hands clawing futilely up at her assailant as she panicked. Her leg kicked out, upsetting the side table with a crash and sending Corelli’s Christmas concerto scattering over the floor in leaflets. Willa grunted and dug in against her thrashing, heart beating thunderously with adrenaline as she felt the violist gradually ebb. She guided her down as she sank weakly to the floor and gave one final vicious tug on the garrote, lingering there in a grotesque Pietà until Shibata’s head was free of breath and purple with spent blood.

“This is business, but also pleasure.”

Willa stood, calmly winding the string—a cello string?—back up and slipping it in her briefcase, her pulse thrumming enjoyably beneath it all.

“She did not need to know her purpose. That she serves it is enough.”

She squatted to grip Shibata’s body beneath the arms and drag her down the foyer towards the glimpse of bathroom she spotted. It was almost too easy, the short woman weighing little against her efforts. She paused briefly at the doorjamb to reposition her up into a fireman’s carry, and then entered the small room. The bathtub would suit. A tic of satisfaction hit her.

“I am improving,” Willa smiled, swinging the woman unceremoniously into the tub with a thud. “I take what I need. I must cut quickly.”

She changed gloves, now wearing plastic up to her elbows. The knife in her hand was small, but substantial and lethally sharp. She sliced up the front of Shibata’s soft shirt, splaying it open to reveal the pale abdomen beneath. Her pants went the same way, cut back just enough to provide an open workspace. Then she incised. The long wound bled weakly for lack of pulse, but soon gravity would coax the rest out.

She worked quickly, deepening the abdominal access and severing the connective tissue holding the small intestine in its coils and folds. This was what she sought. Her hands slipped smoothly through the hot cavity, the sensation making the rest of her excitingly cold and sending a tingle down her spine. She was a creator, gathering her clay. Hot, slick clay-

Willa gasped, blinking hard and shooting back from the tub. Her hand caught on the toilet seat but slipped off, sending her down hard on the minty tile. She scrambled away to lean beneath the towel rack, shaking, and spat a stray curl out of her mouth. The blood was carmine-brown again, long dried. It was evening. The house had grown host to fruit flies and neglect.

She forced herself up, unable to still the tremble in her limbs. She caught the breath to swear but couldn’t even muster that, letting out an anguished moan instead. 

This was _sick_ , on a different level than even the domestic violence or revenge homicides she’d seen with the Baltimore PD. The killer was self-assured in his power, a sociopath who would continue again and again and again if left unchecked. He had swept her with him like a rip current, though Willa didn’t know to what extent her half-decade refusal to truly look had played in that. Was this what she was in for? Some small part of her found the clarity be relieved that all she’d caught of the Ripper and the Shrike had been accidental glimpses. She could only imagine what they would feel like to ride with.

Willa left the bathroom as quickly as possible, running a hand through her hair and tucking her button-up back into her skirt in an attempt to put herself back together again. Crawford, Katz, and Lecter were standing off the foyer in the Turkish-rugged living room. 

“Agent Crawford,” she called, trying to tamp down a vague sense of nausea.

“Graham,” the woman acknowledged, breaking her previous conversation with Lecter. “We heard a bang.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, before diving into the topic at hand. “Our killer… he has nothing against his victims. He sees them as resources, as something to be used. There’s no point in looking for personal connections between them because there won’t be any. He chooses them only because they’re healthy and convenient.” Willa shook her head. “He’s getting better. More confident. It fits a classic escalation pattern, but he’s going fast. If he stops at all, it won’t be until he’s gotten enough of what he wants.”

“He’s already succeeded in shutting the orchestra down.”

“I’m not sure that’s his goal. His desires are simpler. It could be the intestines or it could just be the experience of it all. A lethal high.” She shuddered. “He’s definitely connected to the orchestra, probably as an audience member. They could be trophies. They could also be more.”

“If he’s taking trophies, why not hearts? Or ears or fingers?” Katz asked. “They’re more symbolically attractive, and if he’s ultimately selling them you can’t fence intestines for transplant like you could lungs or a liver.”

“I don’t know. But whatever they’re for, he needs to cut them out as quickly as possible after death.” Willa’s throat suddenly felt glazed, the nausea amping up to full bore. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I- I have to step outside.”

Crawford’s call of “Graham!” followed her out the front door as she fumbled through, ignoring the looks the two local police officers gave her before rounding the side of the house. She crouched at the edge of the bushes, dry heaving several times— _hot, slippery hands_ —before finally evacuating something. The release of adrenaline vomiting prompted made her feel slightly better than thirty seconds ago, but she still felt like shit: stress and dulling nausea on top of residual flu-ache.

She groaned and stood, wiping her mouth after some searching with a golden-red leaf that had been protected from the earlier snowfall by the hedge. The side yard was small and ringed almost entirely by vegetation, its patchy grass shaded by a barren apple tree. She left the bushes to slump down on the steps leading up to the kitchen door, hanging her head between her knees and feeling the cold air of evening gathering strength.

This house was the field. Shibata had died here, the woman she’d seen as in the morgue as a cold, stiff object on a slab. The woman whose weight she’d imagined sinking into her lap as she asphyxiated, and to whom she bore striking similarity to in profession. A wave of anger hit her and she dug her nails into her palm, tense with furious disgust. Why was it so fucking _easy_ for her to slip back into this? To ride inside the shell of a killer’s crimes? And what did it say about her that it had only gotten more visceral?

“Ms. Graham?” came a velvety voice, accompanied by the crunch of heels over leaves and thin snow. The tone grew kinder on the second call. “Willa?”

She glanced up to see Lecter walking towards her along the house and sighed, accepting her coat from the psychiatrist. Jackie trailed behind, taking her typical stance a ways away and silently assessing Willa’s crumpled demeanor.

“Thanks,” she said, slipping it on. Lecter looked on in silence. “I should never have come.”

“On the contrary,” she replied. “it was impressive.”

“I only found things I could rule out,” Willa retorted. “No leads. I can’t do this, Dr. Lecter. There was a reason I left the force.”

“Your stabbing? An unfortunate circumstance, but-“

Willa barked a bitter laugh. “That’s not why I _stayed_ out. You’ve read my file from the Baltimore PD, haven’t you? Willa Graham, queen of the Baltimore homicide?”

“No, I have not. Jackie has illustrated the most pertinent details for me, however. A remarkable closure rate and an instinct for teasing out the psyches and motivations of those who kill. Altogether quite a unique combination in someone now a professional musician, no?”

Willa’s eyes skidded over Crawford as she listened to Lecter, attempting to judge what drove her. Justice, mainly. Devotion to her job, and the ceaseless resourcefulness that had gotten her here.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” Lecter commented, catching her out.

“Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough. It’s hard to focus. So I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

“I imagine that what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone area of your skull for things you love.”

Willa looked sharply at Lecter, mind cranking up. That was definitely not in her precinct file. 

“Whose profile are you working on?” she demanded, then turned to verbally assault Crawford’s bulk, almost snarling. “Whose _profile_ is she working on?”

“Graham-“ Jackie began, but Lecter interjected.

“I’m sorry, Willa. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

It wasn’t enough, and Willa’s anger still wheeled on Crawford.

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed. We’re done here.” She stood and stalked back towards the cars. This whole thing had been a mistake.

 

Hanna sat in Jackie’s office, the agent sitting at a slight angle in her desk chair with her hands steepled in thought. It had been a long, tense drive back last night, with Willa refusing to share a car with anyone but Katz. Hanna had opted to stay overnight in a hotel rather than travel another hour in her own car to Baltimore, enabling the early meeting. Deprived of a change of clothes, she had been forced to wear yesterday’s ensemble again. SHe'd be leaving for home as soon as possible.

“I want her back, Hanna. At least one more day. From what Chief Hendricks told me, I’m shocked that the FBI never scouted her before.”

“I agree. She seems to be a valuable resource, if delicate to handle.”

“It has been a while for her.”

Hanna nodded in acknowledgement, but Willa’s complexities clearly ran deeper than what Jackie thought. “I’ll see what I can do to speak with her.”

“Keep poking her like you were and she’ll shut the door in your face. I don’t need that. She didn’t make much progress, but it was more than we’ve been able to scrounge up in weeks.”

“During intense conversations, she begins adopting your cadence of speech. I’m sure you’ve noticed?” she half-questioned. Jackie nodded.

“I thought it was a gimmick to get the back-and-forth going.”

“It’s involuntary. She couldn’t stop herself if she tried.” Hanna leaned forward, the spark of intrigue she’d harbored before now a nicely crackling flame. Willa was absolutely fascinating, the sort that bore with it an edge of latent threat. “What she has is pure empathy, and projection. She can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare her. It’s an uncomfortable gift,  
Jackie. Perception’s a tool that’s pointed on both ends.”

“This string killer you’d like her to get to know… I think I can help good Willa see his face.”


	5. Chapter 5

It was too hot. Willa rolled, gripped in an otherwise blissfully blank haze.

Why was it so _hot_?

_Ping_

_Pangpang_

_Pak_

The heater. The old heater was making its decrepit gurgle-ping noises again.

Willa groaned and dragged herself to sit up on top of the comforter, skull throbbing, joints aching, and rubbed her hands over her face. Her whiskey glass sat empty on the side table, its accompanying bottle of Jack spent and discarded on the rug. Winston hruffed and gazed up at her, his tail twitching into a hopeful wag and knocking the damn thing under a chair.

“Fuck fuck _fuck._ ”

Her alarm clock’s blue-green display cast _2:37 PM_ into the warp of the tumbler. The bedsprings groaned as Willa got her feet on the floor, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to stop the spinning. When it calmed, she realized that the number of eyes on her had grown to seven.

“What?” she grumbled. The dogs just waited, expectant. The goldendoodle let out a small whine.

“Fine,” Willa conceded. She struggled through the hangover to the door and fumbled it open, the smack of cool air as good as a bucket of water to the face. Winston was the last dog out, licking her fingers as he went. The sweat soaking her shirt—the button up from yesterday, she realized, and she had taken off her pants at some point—chilled as he bounded off the porch and into the thin snow.

Willa managed to turn down the thermostat and get a glass of water before reaching the level of cogency required to remember _why_ she had finished half a fifth of whiskey alone at three in the morning. She slammed the water and sank down at the counter, glancing hopefully in the liquor cabinet that she knew was already cleaned out and hating herself for it. She sighed. It took another several minutes to pull herself back up and refill her glass from the tap.

Yesterday had been filled with poor choices, retrospectively, not least of which was following through on the temptation that she could involve herself in a case again. Though grudgingly, she’d truly convinced herself that she indeed _should_ help, given the victims. She had forgotten just how much self-loathing she’d lived with in Homicide until it had all come flooding back through her gut and her brain and her shaking hands, rendering her state of mind just a week ago into an impossibility from some other universe. A switch had been flipped and all those years of building a real reputation as a violinist and enjoying her job, really _enjoying_ it, seemed ephemeral now. Thank god she had off today.

Willa bent to the sink and splashed her face, toweling off some of the night’s salt and oil. Bloom had been so damn sincere, so convincing, that it would just be giving her opinion first and foremost as an informed musician. And Lecter, with her purring appeals to justice and expensive wines and that subtle little cock of her head when she was interested in something. Her sharp-cut skirts and the way her eyes (were they _maroon?_ ) almost seemed to linger on-

But Willa had gone for it all. And that was on her because she knew that nothing short of removing herself from the case entirely (Shibata, the killer, _hot, slick-_ ) would work to keep herself out of it. She’d never been able to keep an AA chip, and now she’d just thrown away whatever they would give you for psychological sobriety.

A sudden rattling in the main room shocked Willa from her contemplation at the sink, her heart racing to her throat before she recognized that it was just her phone. It took a solid minute of shaking out sheets and listening before she finally found it under the bed, by which time it had gone to voicemail.

The bed groaned as Willa sat to get the screen out of the afternoon rays that managed to penetrate the curtained back yard windows. She had three missed calls, all from the same unknown number. She cleared them only to have the new voicemail notification buzz. Whoever it was had just left a message.

“New message left at: three oh one PM,” began the recording.

“Ms. Graham, this is Hanna Lecter calling. Agent Crawford… _regrets_ that your introduction to the BAU was less than pleasant and requested that I check in to ensure your wellbeing after yesterday’s events. Since you are not answering your phone, I’ve taken the liberty of making a house call. I’m on my way now. I hope that-”

Willa hung up viciously.

The Feds could never leave well enough alone, could they? But this wasn’t just Crawford, she realized in her anger. This was Lecter—not even _real_ FBI—knocking on her door after she’d explicitly told them she didn’t want anything to do with them anymore. Was Crawford trying to make amends by sending someone else in her place? If so, she’d misjudged. The only thing making her anxious now was being forced to deal with Lecter again. She didn’t _need_ a psychiatrist to check in on her, she told herself. She was fine.

It then dawned on her that she was still standing, at five past three, half-dressed and disheveled in a house smelling of dog and 80-proof self-loathing.

“Shit,” she swore, dashing over to her dresser and fumbling off her shirt. How long did she have until Lecter rolled up in the driveway? That depended on where in her drive she’d called, which Willa didn’t know. On went fresh underwear, then a pair of jeans and the first clean t-shirt at hand. She managed to comb her hair into something decent, pulling it back before giving the living room a cursory clean-up from last night.

Her panic eased as the doorbell ring she feared didn’t immediately come, and she settled pensively at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of water. Soon enough, though, the pack began barking and she heard the crunch of tires on gravel slowly pulling up to the steps. The bell chimed and, after a long moment of contemplating whether she was better off just not answering, Willa went to the door.

“Ms. Graham,” Lecter greeted, as poised as ever on the porch. She should have looked out of place against the aging paint and autumn decay of the field, but somehow managed not to. The pack of mutts continued to bark, milling about the psychiatrist’s burgundy heels and sniffing up at the bag she carried.

“Dr. Lecter,” Willa responded flatly, unwilling to crack the door any further than it already was. She leaned her shoulder against the narrow edge and braced her hand on the jamb, head poking out into the chill.

“May I come in?” questioned Lecter, raising her voice over the dogs and calling out Willa’s impoliteness with the subtlest raise of her brow. Willa paused, then grudgingly stepped out of the way to let the other woman enter. She didn’t want to deal with this, but Lecter was someone it wouldn’t be intelligent to entirely burn bridges with. As much as she may now dislike her, she was still a heavy hitter with the orchestra. Perhaps it was worth leaving be whatever tenuous respect remained between them.

Lecter swept in, swiftly appraising the room before strolling through to the kitchen table and relieving herself of her bag. Willa trailed behind and then settled with crossed arms against the wall, unsure how to deal with the casual confidence with which she moved about her house.

“So Crawford sent you,” she began, deciding to get it over with.

“Yes.” Lecter turned, wearing the smallest hint of a smile. “I see you do check your messages.”

“Occasionally.”

“Jackie became quite concerned after the first two calls. Given what occurred at the scene, I find it difficult to blame her. She has a responsibility to ensure the wellbeing of those involved in the investigations she oversees.”

“I’m fine,” Willa countered, the words ringing hollow but not for lack of trying.

“The gristle of murder affects even the most seasoned investigator,” Lecter pressed. “Working in forensics or homicide or criminal psychology does not make one immune to what man can inflict on his fellows. There’s nothing to be ashamed of about your reaction, especially given your-“

“Don’t,” Willa snapped, cutting her off. Her nails bit silently into the palms of her clenched hands.

Lecter appraised her for a moment, then turned away.

“I apologize. I am obligated to carry out at least a minimum of what Agent Crawford requests of me.”

“You can tell her that she doesn’t need to worry, all I want is to be left alone now. I don’t need a psychiatrist.”

“Then I shall do my best not to be one today.”

Two tupperwares, silverware, and a thermos and mugs had been lifted from the bag and placed on the table, the expensive sort of take-out packaging that Walmart didn’t carry.

“What’s that?” Willa frowned.

“A late lunch. A little protein scramble to start your day, just some eggs and sausage.” Lecter’s look made it clear that her attempts to pull herself together had not been especially effective, prompting a bloom of embarrassed heat in her cheeks.

The doctor pulled out a chair and sat, gesturing for Willa to do the same. She felt like a guest in her own home, the entirety of the situation now defined by Lecter’s presence. The other woman was impeccable, all angles and perfect rose-toned lipstick and fancy cooking and Christ, why was she not kicking her out?

The scent from the cracked-open containers lured Willa down into the opposing seat, her stomach rumbling in previously unnoticed protest. She took the delicate fork provided and brought a bite to her mouth, chewing carefully as the flavors played over her tongue.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Lecter returned, pouring coffee from the thermos for them both. Her nails were painted wine-red against the porcelain cups.

They ate at a measured pace, Willa leaning forward with elbows on the table and Lecter with her legs properly crossed. The psychiatrist consumed more coffee than food, seeming to take pleasure in watching her resist the urge to hastily finish as she would were she alone. Willa’s mind whirred, trying to process the visit’s swift turn towards what, the domestic? This was _not_ going as she’d anticipated.

She rested her fork on the table.

“Why are you really here, Dr. Lecter?”

No response. Lecter simply set her cup down and tipped her head ever so slightly to the side.

“You come to my house from the FBI to make sure I haven’t done anything _stupid_ , and then casually bring out food? Those two things don’t go together.”

“I find you interesting.” Her voice purred silkily now.

“I’m not,” Willa gritted out. “Please don’t say you want to write a paper.”

“No,” came reassurance. “I have no interest in using you as research material.”

“Then… what? Is this a professional call or a personal call?”

“Would it be uncouth to say a bit of both?”

Willa’s brow furrowed, eyes flicking down to regard the scramble again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Our first meeting had nothing to do with Agent Crawford, the orchestra killer, or any other unsavory pursuits,” Lecter explained. “Simply a mutual appreciation for the finer points of music. I would hate to see the BSO deprived of your presence again due to what happened at the Shibatas’.”

“The unsavory pursuits certainly weren’t absent from your dinner party,” countered Willa, moments of that evening rising brightly to the surface of her memory beneath the film of yesterday’s rage. Aromas of cooking, cold champagne in her hand against the close heat of a fire. Tipsy conversation, then intense interest leveled on her. An incidental brush of Lecter’s fingers as she accepted the bottle of wine.

“Conversation often fails to follow the paths we set for it, despite how carefully we build our dams and levees.” Lecter smiled slightly and sipped her coffee. It seemed genuine to Willa’s eyes, a crackle showing through her artfully reserved demeanor, and something inside her relaxed.

“And had the conversation flowed along a different course?”

“I would have asked when you began playing.”

“I begged my dad for my first violin when I was six. I sounded terrible.”

“As would most six year olds, I imagine.”

Willa felt her resentment towards Lecter begin subsiding as they spoke, her image of her changing as they interacted for the first time in an informal setting. This was Willa’s home turf, no matter how messy it was or how much charisma the other woman exuded. The topics ranged from her favorite pieces and whether Lecter played any instruments—she did, dabbling with several—to how far they each had traveled and Lecter’s former work as a surgeon. Eventually the tupperwares sat long empty, and the conversation ebbed in suit.

“Perhaps I should be going,” Lecter surmised out loud. “It’s growing late.”

The doctor rose and whisked away Willa’s dishes, clearly intending to wash them, but WIlla quickly took them from her and started the sink herself. She couldn’t have Lecter do everything, not when she was technically the guest.

“It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared enough to visit me and just talk,” she spoke, half turned away. “Thanks, Dr. Lecter.”

“Please, just call me Hanna if you’d like.”

“Hanna, then.”

“And thank you for the pleasant conversation. Here, give me the silverware and I’ll dry.”

 

 

The two women’s breath clouded icily as Willa followed Hanna out of the house, low sunlight glinting off the sleek black Bentley parked in the driveway. They exchanged brief goodbyes but Willa remained, lingering on the porch.

“Tell Jackie something for me, would you?” she called at the last moment, hands shoved deep in her pockets. Hanna paused, one hand on the open car door.

“Of course.”

“Tell her I meant it when I said I didn’t want her to contact me again. I’m a musician now. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“By all means do, if that is what you want. You have no obligation to the FBI, unlike myself. But even in your music you engage and express so intensely that I cannot believe it is entirely separate from how you interpret the texts of crimes, so to say.”

“Music doesn’t have a body count. It’s not the same.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Willa. Have a good night.”

 

 

Willa woke from fitful dreams in darkness, the barest of moonshadows cutting across her sweat-soaked sheets. They were red, witching hour dreams, filled with sickly sweetness and flesh beneath her hands. But there were other, separate dreams, ones with ashy blonde hair and paisley and flickers of and sharp, clean scents.

 Or had they been one and the same? She would not be able to remember in the morning.


End file.
